


Testimonial

by angelkat



Series: [collection] Rival Argentica (2014-2018) [9]
Category: Kung Fu Panda (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Rant Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:48:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21801655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelkat/pseuds/angelkat
Summary: In which Shen...rants./reposted Dec 15, 2019. not edited
Series: [collection] Rival Argentica (2014-2018) [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570921
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Testimonial

Someone had asked me a question—

"Aren't you _ever_ going to give it all up?"

…if I find out who asked me that particular question, _again_ , I would incinerate his soul and make him curse the day he was born.

Because do I really have to go through this process all over again? How many times do I _have_ to explain this to you? I've answered that question repeatedly, time and time again, and yet you return to me, asking it _again_. Why can't you just bloody understand?

Are you a complete _idiot?_

No, no, wait, that is a question you are not supposed to answer. Because I already know it. Without a doubt.

You _are_ a complete idiot.

Because, perhaps, over the years of my banishment, you've been hoping that I would come back, expecting me to fall down on my knees, cry like a blithering idiot, and spill all my non-existent guilt regarding the blood I had spilled from the foul-smelling bodies of those fat, ugly, disgusting vermin you all call the _lovely_ pandas. You were, perhaps, hoping that there would be redemption for me, that I would see the wrongs in my actions, that I would turn around and walk down the 'right path' you all like to blather about whenever you try to convince me. Maybe you wanted me to reflect on my life, how fate had been oh-so-cruel to me, or maybe you even wished I would open up a sentimental side of me, actually secrete that vile, nasty liquid called _tears_ , so that all of you could feast your disgusting, unwanted pity upon me.

You think you know me. But the truth is, you don't. No one does. How laughable is this? You all act as if you know me, you sympathize me as if you want me to feel the 'guilt' and finally change my ways. You want me to admit that I am weak. You want to let it be _known_ that I am weak. You want to make it a public knowledge that I feel so miserable and that I despise myself because of my colour. You want me to say that I need someone in my life to have a shoulder to lean on, because I am so pitifully weak that I couldn't even stand on my own feet. You want to _see_ me cry because fate had been so merciless to me, and you want me to give it all up and fall on my knees like a blind, obedient dog begging for crumbs of bread from its master.

Disgusting.

At one point in time, maybe you had the _slightest_ tinge of hope, that, when that flabby panda was trying to convince me to change sides, I would actually surrender thirty years of hard work onto those grubby paws of his. You came here, thinking that I am about to apologize for all my 'vile' actions, those actions that I couldn't help but take pride upon. You wanted me to actually say that one, sad, strange little word, oh, what was it again? Let me think for a second…. Ah, correct. _That_ word. You _wanted_ me to say _that_ word. 'Sorry'.

If you came here anticipating to witness me say such pathetic thing, then you are nothing but a complete _idiot_.

I did nothing in my life that I regret. I will never apologize for my rightful actions. I stand strong with my head unbowed—my pride would be the only thing remaining in a barren world to challenge even the test of time. I am not _sorry_ for anything. And I never will be.

_Deal with it._

Many have tried to convince me to come into rebirth, to be born again, to start anew. They want me to forget the past and live on. They _think_ they _know_ me, but if they thought that I would even give a single, blasted thought on surrendering, then they don't. I actually find their stupidity mildly amusing. Are you one of them?

Yes, you are. You are one of those complete idiots who actually think they understand me even though they actually don't, those people who needs… _enlightenment_ on who I really am.

Alright, listen up, all you contumelious creatures. Here is my paid lecture. Evilness can't be transformed into kindness in just one snap your fingers. Do you really think you'd ever see me offering help to an old random sheep who can't reach high enough to hang her sun lanterns? Do you think you'd ever see me being surrounded by kids, lecturing them about the moral of some random children's tale? Do you think I'd ever open my wings out wide, inviting everyone to come over for a group hug, and then say, 'Be happy, spread love!'?

Tell me the truth.

Do you _really_ think I'd ever do such disgusting things and even go so far as to mingle with _peasants_? Can you imagine me ever doing such things?

…that's what I thought.

No, you can _not_.

And for a follow-up question—

Why can you not?

The answer—because it is not something I would do.

Lord Shen is a proud murderer, a master tactician, a brilliant scientist, someone who looks beyond the horizons and would do anything to claim what he wanted, _when_ he wanted, and _nothing_ stands in his way. That is me in one sentence. That is my personality, that is _who I am_. Being Shen makes me _me_ , and falling down on my knees right now and ask for your forgiveness like a sappy old fool would mean that I am abandoning, _betraying_ who I am. It is not something Lord Shen would ever do. It is not something _I_ would ever do, and no one can change that.

It is _who I am_.

This is one statement that will never wear off, and will live even after the sun turns grey.

…but, I figure, that you are still unable to understand what I intend to grill into that brainless skull of yours. Well. That is to be expected from a complete idiot, so I will take the effort to elaborate further—even though it pains me to lower the height of my acuity just to match yours.

Viewing it from another angle, I will start with this question: if you say that you want me to change myself from who I really am, then how am I supposed to do it? How am I supposed to change who I am?

How?

_How?_

…Mm.

That is what I was talking about. It is an unanswerable riddle, is it not? Changing me from who I already am—it's like you want me to cook up an impossible miracle. Turning vice into virtue, slander into truth, impotence into abstinence, arrogance into humility, plunder into philanthropy, thievery into honour, blasphemy into wisdom, brutality into patriotism, and sadism into justice—that kind of miraculous change only requires one, painful little thing:

An empty character.

And here, you say, that you want me, _me_ of all people, to be an empty character?

After all I've been through, you have the _nerve_ to call me capable of being an _empty character?_

You naïve idiots!

The way your minds are so innocently moulded makes me want to grasp them on my wings and crush it, then watch the miserable remnants fall down the dirty drain of darkness. Your spotless bodies, your stainless minds, your unblemished souls—it angers me on how your parents actually took the effort to keep you clean, to keep you from seeing _reality_. Just how blind can all of you get? You think this is a world where one can just easily turn from darkness to light, just like in all of those lovely fairy tales where the 'bad guy' is suddenly bashed on the head and he decides to change sides all that easily. Well, news flash: evil people are those people who have the strongest testimonies whose roots are deeper than the shallow muddy puddle everybody else has, including yours.

And I, Lord Shen, am far, far deeper than just a shallow muddy puddle left after the rain.

Even so, you keep telling me that it is not too late to change, that I should, in fact, even _welcome_ rebirth. 'Shen, you still have a chance for redemption, if you just ask for it—you can still find your way out of this darkness, if you just reach for the light!' What fools. As if I'm a cheap, superficial fool who you could just easily buy with a few sweetly-spoken words. Those words are so easy for you to say—because what _do_ you know, really?

You know nothing.

It is not that easy to throw your past behind you when it is the only thing giving you the tenacity to actually live. You think it is _that_ easy to change sides, _that_ easy to throw your previous personality and put on a completely new robe that simply does not even fit you, _that_ easy to turn around and abandon the path you've been trekking down for _years_. You think it's easy to just forget the past that made you who you are right now, and start a new life, a new beginning, with a new personality that is not even _you_. That is exactly what rebirth means—giving up on your old life like a coward, and restarting once more.

But life is not a childish game, wherein, after losing, you can say, 'Can I start over?' like it really is not that big of a deal. Because it _is_. You can't just start over like nothing even happened, as if thirty long years of suffering didn't make for any difference. The insolence of that—that grubby _panda_ —how _dare_ he, telling me to 'let go of the past', because it simply 'just doesn't matter'?

How dare he?

_Just how dare he?!_

_He tells me that my past just doesn't matter?!_

He speaks as if he knew _everything_ about me. He used a tone of voice that was almost _pitiful_ , yet—yet so—so effortlessly _unexacting_ , at the same time. The gall! He didn't know _anything_ about me, and he didn't have to undergo through what I had, but there he was, standing like a complete idiot, _lecturing_ me about my life, telling me that my past _just doesn't matter!_ To think that the mere existence of his stupid species was what crumbled my very soul in the first place, and he speaks like he's some goody-goody hero who fixes every single little mistake with one touch of his magic paw—it's—it's—

It's bloody _foul_. Somebody _please_ enlighten me as to how that disgusting, incredibly unsophisticated _animal_ even got the title of a Dragon Warrior in the first place. He doesn't deserve it.

Those who disagree with me are insolent fools.

Because did he really think I regret doing the things I did in the past? Did he really think I ever _will?_ Oh, no, no, no. And since the possibilities are high that you most probably share with that panda's philosophy, perhaps this is the perfect time for me to straighten out the bent thinking of that sorry excuse of a thing inside your skull you call your brain—and that is referring to you, you complete idiots. If you think that I would simply step into your shabby little Good Guys Club, your innocent mind is even more futile than I already thought. Your innocence…how _pathetic_. I would be more than happy to be at service for you. In fact, I would even take _pleasure_ to forcefully open those eyes of yours and make you see how…just how beautifully dark and—and _cruel_ the world really is, staining all of you holier-than-thou people with the splatters of your own blood. Hmm. Maybe I should actually consider this. Your bloody bodies hanging on my walls would make for such a marvellous decoration.

And _you_ , Father, Mother. Now, what was it that I was just about to say to you two? Hmmm…

Ah, I remember.

_Curse you and your prissy souls._

I'm sick of the two of you trying to smile at me when what you wanted to do was scowl. I'm tired of hearing you voice out your disappointments in me even when I'm already pushing through my boundaries. I'm through with you having to regard me with disgust or with pity, assuming that I can't do this and I can't do that, just because of _what_ I am, of _who_ I am. Again, what did you want me to do? Say sorry? Beg for your forgiveness? That will happen, oh, maybe when the old goat actually stopped eating my silken robes like a normal creature. Because it's not like I had any control over my fate. I was _born_ white. It is something you cannot blame on me, because it's not like a wanted it. I didn't _choose_ to be humiliated and to be sickly, to be ignored and exiled, to be isolated and cast away. I didn't want any of it.

No one does.

You're both blasted hypocritical imbeciles who didn't know how to do anything but say excuses. Why didn't you just _spit it out?_ You tried convincing me that white was _beautiful_ , that, one day, I'd be able to overcome the…the weaknesses of my body, and that the despicable animals of Gongmen would see that I am not this ridiculous 'bad omen' after all, when we all know that what you're saying is actually the complete _opposite_. For that, I hate you with the fire of a thousand suns. You're nothing but imposters. Excuse _this_ , excuse _that_. Well, you're _both_ sorry excuses of parents. You're both nothing but blithering charlatans—you're both nothing but—but—

—but _liars_.

I hate it when I see you pretending as if you're all so bloody concerned, when I know you actually aren't. I heard the whispers of the people whenever they see me, and that you actually _agree_ with them; the way you exchange glances whenever I ask for permission to go out even when it's raining; and the disgust on those peahens' faces when you wanted to force a marriage arrangement, which always ended up in vain, anyway. Father dear, I am not blind—I saw the desperate look you exchanged with Mother, and I knew what you were both thinking: that you need an heir, an heir who is to naturally have a mate, but that heir is not to be me, because, well, I suppose white is not really the very pretty colour as you previously thought it was, now, was it?

Answer me.

Look straight into my eyes, and answer me.

_Was it?_

Oh, and may I just remind you that I am _not_ an albino? No, it's such a horrid term, and it sickens me to hear myself being described as such. _I am leucistic._ To those illiterate people who don't understand that, being leucistic means being a creature with lack of colour.

Lack of colour.

 _Lack_ _of_ _colour_ , I repeat, to you garbled mutts who are still scratching your tick-ridden heads like the fools you are.

_Being leucistic means being a creature with lack of colour._

The definition does not include anything about being blind, about being deaf, or about being _stupid_. As a counter result, I especially hated it whenever you made me go through careful, special treatments—as if I was a _delicate_ piece of china that could be shattered at the slightest force of your touch, because, oh, what was it again? Because I was _sickly_ , I was _weak_ , I could _die_ any second from an unexpected bout of illness, wasn't that what you always said?

Father. Mother.

_I hate you._

I learned my lesson, though. I suppose I should actually say 'thank you' for banishing me. I guess it's better for you to hate me for who I am, than love me for who I am not. Well, as they say, it's… _healthier_ to look at the brighter side of things, is it not? Your sending me into exile made me grow immune to that pathetic thing you call 'emotions'; I learned how to channel them differently, in a way that I take control over them even as they take control over me. My hatred and anger, together, erupted into an inferno that made me… _relentless._ Which, as you might not have the capability to understand because of your low intelligence quotients, is actually a good thing. At least for me—not so much for those who got in the way and became—became…well…how to say this?… _unfortunate_ victims of poorly-aimed cannons. Well, it's not _my_ fault they let their brains rust into a state of defectiveness, being so stupid enough to even dare stand before me.

A saying once said that you should use what you have to your own advantage. Well, what I had was my heartlessness—I merely used it to my own advantage. Now that I say it that way, you can't debate with me against that, can you? It made me an invincible shield that even the saddest of all things couldn't make me emotionally weak, which, in turn, wouldn't be able to fluctuate my physical strength and acute state of mind along with it. Being heartless, being relentless, being hateful and angry, these all gave me a reason, that _fuel_ to live—

—to stand as Emperor and show all of you just how _wrong_ you are.

Which reminds me. I haven't forgotten about _you_ , you mothball-smelling old goat.

Your prophecy—how absolutely refreshing for me to think of that day. The swirls of black and white smoke curling against each other to form the symbol of yin and yang, a symbol so vivid and yet so vague; it is almost too astonishing to know that two simple colours rising out of one of your shoddy, discounted bowls bought from a tasteless garage sale can throw my entire life off-balance.

You, like the rest of the world, may disagree with my methods, but I had to defend my future, defend _myself_. I _had_ to do it—it was a necessity, a duty of a prince who is to be the future ruler of a city—it was a job that should be considered as nothing more than a…than a prerequisite. An extermination of pests.

I killed the pandas.

And I am not ashamed.

Not so delicate now, am I?

Why do you keep on reprimanding me that I only 'sealed my fate' upon doing so, upon massacring the pandas? Soothsayer, Soothsayer, oh dear, _dear_ Soothsayer, despite you having a vast library of unintelligible wisdom and whatnot as you claim you do, you are actually one of _them_ who can't understand. I did what was right. I did it all out of self-defence. I couldn't grasp your way of reason—why weren't you proud of what I did? In my triumphant return from the pugnacious job, why were you wearing a scowl? Why did you stick with my _parents_? I was only trying to protect myself. One would _think_ that one would actually be proud to learn that their child had taken the first step in creating a masterful plan for sealing the brightest future China could ever know, but you…

…you were at my parents' side at the day of my banishment.

But, being the complete idiots you all are, I would assume firsthand that your puny little brains still can't grasp it.

Well, what did you expect me to do, stand idly by like a moron trying to imitate a barnacle? You want me to do _nothing_ , when I am well aware of what will happen? Do you really expect me to do that?

Hmm.

Not that I really care about any of that sort of rubbish at this point in time.

Now. Returning my attention to the audience. An audience made up of complete idiots. You wanted me to say sorry, didn't you? That is why you're even here in the first place. To witness me to say sorry for what I've done, sorry for my sins, sorry for my past mistakes, sorry for being born the way I am, sorry this, sorry bloody _that_. Perhaps I _could_ grant your wish, after all, seeing as you all still look like you just don't get it—which is understandable, of course, since all of you lack the complexity of the intelligence that I have, as I've repeatedly said, so as to serve as a reminder for your forgetful brains. You're such piteous, uneducated creatures, did you know that? Well, here it is. The oh-so-awaited apology that would come from no one else but yours truly. I hope you enjoy:

I'm…

… _sorry._

There. I said it. Happy now?

…Good. I want you to relish that temporary moment of happiness while it lasts. Because it wouldn't.

And, yes—

— _you have heard correctly._

That cursed, blasted… _thing_ called _happiness_ …

…it wouldn't last.

And I could just laugh in glee thinking about it.

All of you, you despicable mongrels, know this—

With each smile that appears on the faces of you contemptuous _animals_ , each sliver of laughter that escapes your filthy little lips, each twinkle of joy and delight that dare mock the way I am struggling to find the way out of the darkness of my own, despicable _fate_ , you are doing nothing but feeding the fire.

Because I envy your happiness.

For that, I hate you all. You are no different from them—you're all _just_ like my parents. Imbecilic hypocrites, imposturous _liars_. Seeing you smile, seeing you laugh, seeing you running around like children, with not a single care in the world—it drives me to relentless insanity. I see vendors looking like they've triumphantly seized an entire territory when all they've actually done was manage to sell a paper lantern; a beggar's eyes brightening like the sun at the gain of a couple of rusty coins; children running excitedly towards the door with electrified little feet upon hearing of their father's arrival from the day's work. It's impossible. Because how is it, that while I am high above the position of nobility, the position of _power_ , you lowly peasants still… _manage_ to look so happy? No. It simply can't be—just can't. It's nothing but _impossible_ —

—impossible to gain so much happiness from so little. I refuse to believe that such little, little things could make your face even do so much as to break into a smile. No, I would not, _never_ believe that you could be happy because of those naïve little things. You're all just…just lying. It's all _acting_. You're acting like you're so happy, so that you could mock just how _sad_ you think I am. Yes, that must be it—you're all just _acting_ like you're happy, a form of mockery, of mocking how my position of power had sunk to a level even lower than the lowest peasant.

And I've had _enough_ of this farce.

When I rise, I will make sure to wipe those insufferable, disgustingly false gleeful smiles from your faces and turn them into delightfully _bloody_ tears of excruciating pain. I will make sure, that no matter how hard you try, you will never be able to grasp anything in the midst of the darkness I would impose upon the whole of China— _I_ would be the one feasting on the pitiful sight of _you_ searching for light where there is none, tripping and trudging through the darkness like clumsy, blind little fools as I sit in my throne, watching you as entertainment. The concept of happiness will wilt, for _I_ will be the one to kill it, forever to remain extinct, dying into agonizing screams that would escape your thirsty throats as I throw you in the furnace of my hate and anger, an undying empire that I would build just for you—

—and no one else would ever be happy again, in a barren land that I would burn to cinders, where happiness can never be found, forever _dead_. You will never be happy again, because by that time, when I get my revenge, I would have taken every single bit of existing happiness, and let it shrivel into ashes.

Then, only _then_ , would you complete idiots with your pea-sized brains, _finally_ be able to understand.

Any more questions?


End file.
